


Biopsy

by asuralucier



Series: Bonum Fidei [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bourbon - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee, Dogs, Emotional Constipation on the part of everybody, Friendly Exes getting back together, Fun with Guns, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bad decisions all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”Well,” John’s mouth quirks without much humor. “She did say the car doesn’t count.”A retelling of the second movie following on fromAutopsy-- Marcus is still simultaneously amused and appalled at John’s life choices. (Other points of interest might include Santino D’Antonio’s unacknowledged boner for John, more guns, black tie, ruined vacations to lovely locations, and a complicated favor.)





	1. Imminence

“Well,” John’s mouth quirks without much humor as they pull up to the abandoned row of warehouses. He stills the car that they’ve borrowed from Winston and turns off the engine. The car is serviceable enough, a black Lincoln town car that has since seen better days. 

There’s a crack on her windshield and some blood, still slightly fresh, seeping through. But all in all, it’s not too bad. “...She did say the car doesn’t count. And that’s all we’re going to do. Get back the car.” 

John says that like he believes it. He probably does. 

Marcus has never really bought into the the idea poisoning modern masculinity nowadays that a man’s virtue, outside of his package, is entwined with his car. Marcus doesn’t think John buys into that either, for him it’s always a matter of principle. Principles are usually unattractive on a person because most people wear principles like they’d wear an expensive watch or a set of too-colorful cufflinks. To make some noise and want to get other people to sit up and notice. John isn’t like that; principle is in his blood and he doesn't need to resort to such things to get attention. 

Still, Marcus feels like he has to try, “You did promise Viggo that you wouldn’t do anything...rash. And you did promise me a vacation.” 

John turns and fixes Marcus with a look that is so cool that you could feel butter melting, “I promised Viggo something. I promised his brother nothing.” The look then turns, a little like a good wine going sour, “Moon says you’re not supposed to be up and about. I assume he’s going to say the same thing about you taking a holiday that revolves around walking.” 

“We don’t have to go to the Lake District,” Marcus reminds him. “We can go anywhere. Languish on the beach. You could do with a tan.” Marcus could add that John doesn’t have to treat him like some sort of delicate cripple but he is thinking that he’ll save that for later. 

“I hate swimming,” John says. “Seriously. You don’t have to be here.” 

“I know I don’t,” Marcus reaches for the pieces of his favorite semi-auto and clicks the parts together like he’s done a thousand times. There’s something familiar about it, but the thrill that creeps up his spine never goes away. “I’m not here for you, John. I’m here for the car.” 

“Good point,” John assents after a moment. He plucks out his cell and puts it to his ear. “...Hello, Abram? I trust you know who I am. I believe you have my car.” 

 

John makes a mess. It’s principle bordering on pettiness at this point, but it’s not as if Marcus has a dog in this fight. He really does let John get away with too much. By Marcus’s reliable count, they’ve wrecked about ten taxis and killed upwards of forty people. They’ve also blown up a few warehouses. But John's beloved Mustang is fine, only just, save a ding or two or three. 

“That’s one of your bullets,” John says, poking his finger into one of the dents. 

“Sorry,” Marcus shrugs; he doesn't really feel sorry. As far as he is concerned, he'd just saved Aurelio a ton of work and then some. “You all done?” 

“I think so, yeah. I’ve had a drink with Abram,” John says. “We’ve buried the hatchet. But it might be better if you drive.” 

 

For their holiday in the Lake District, Marcus packs heavy-soled hiking boots, a couple of dog-eared paperbacks including _To The Lighthouse_ , a guide to British birds, socks, three passports, a tin of his preferred coffee of the week, and after some wavering, a blowtorch. Say what you will about airport security nowadays, but he is also contemplating bringing a gun or maybe two. Nothing fancy, just a small snug Ruger for his peace of mind. Marcus doesn’t think anything will _happen_ , but it’s best to be prepared. The nearest Continental will be a little less than four hours away and Marcus has never been that far from a Continental in his working lifetime. He wonders now, if John has ever found the prospect of retirement terrifying.

Then again, probably not, because she’d been there. Helen isn’t here now, but John still disappears for long stretches of time now and then. Daisy is privy to some of these journeys while Ramsay isn’t, and Marcus doesn’t question it. 

It’s probably something else they will never speak about. 

John pads into the room with Daisy and Ramsay in tow. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and sets one down next to Marcus on the end table next to his open suitcase. Ramsay is still settling in with his name but he seems to be responding to it half of the time, which is something. “...Coffee?” 

“You read my mind.”

“I just picked one from your cabinet,” John says. “I hope that’s okay.” 

Marcus puts his nose to the brim of the mug and inhales, “French?” 

“I think so. I can go check.”

“Don’t bother. If it’s in my cabinet it’s good enough for me.” 

John drops down cross-legged next to Marcus and reaches for the Rutger, weighing the weapon thoughtfully in his hand, “...Expecting trouble?” 

Marcus shrugs, “Age-old paranoia. Don’t tell me you haven’t packed anything.” 

John has to think, “Just some C4 for good luck and a paring knife.” 

“...A paring knife?” 

John mirrors his shrug, “In case I want to skin an apple. Or something.” 

Marcus doesn’t ask him to explain the C4 any further. He suggests that they take the dogs for one last walk before heading off to the airport. 

 

Even though they aren’t travelling on business, John gets them through security by palming a gold coin before Marcus can do the same. The TSA officer smiles at them as the coin disappears from view, all white teeth, and wishes them safe travels. They are waved through with no further fanfare. 

“I can’t help but think that was cheating,” Marcus says. 

John cracks open a bottle of Coke with his elbow and raises his gaze up towards the Departure boards; miracles of miracles, their flight to Manchester appears to be on time. “When she and I went on our honeymoon, we were stuck in security for three hours. Apparently the idiot in front of us had shampoo. But then our flight was delayed another five hours.” John looks like he wants to add something on to that, but then he shrugs it off. 

“Let’s get a drink.” 

 

Sometimes, a pain still stabs at his ankle when it gets cold. It hasn’t been that long since he’d been roughed up by Viggo and his cronies, but Marcus is thinking that this one might be it. The pain that will follow him through to the rest of his life. 

The plane catches a bout of strong turbulence but John sleeps through the whole thing, with heavy-duty headphones fit snug on his ears. He looks like he needs the rest. 

 

“Hello, Marcus,” Winston’s voice cracks slightly over the line. “Enjoying your holiday?” 

“It’s not really a holiday if you’re calling me up, is it?” But Marcus is alert; the possibility of the open road and the green hills suddenly darken as if to portend a certain degree of threat. “...Everything all right?” 

Marcus can feel the warm heat of John’s attention near his elbow. 

Winston says, “It’s probably not anything that can’t wait until you return. But someone has come looking for Jonathan, despite knowing very well we don’t do business here.” 

Considering the state of the Lincoln town car that they’d returned to Winston still had all four tires working and the windshield only slightly cracked, this is probably the man doing them a solid. Marcus isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“I notice you’re calling me,” Marcus says. 

“I am,” Winston says. “I figured Jonathan would be driving. I just don’t want the two of you to be caught unawares.” It sounds noisy where he is, as if Winston is careful to follow his own rules, doling out information to them on a bench in Central Park or something. A moment later, Winston confirms this, “...Ramsay is a bit restless. I thought I’d take him out for a walk. Charon said he’d be good company. I get the feeling he misses you.” 

They speak for a moment longer after that. Then Marcus hangs up. He exhales, and John says -- “So?” 

“Nothing that can’t wait,” says Marcus, if only because he’s worried for the safety of the rental car. 

 

Marcus holds out for another two hours, after they’ve checked in to a bed and breakfast, opting for separate rooms. They are advised by the owner to get in a short walk before the weather turns. The owner has been at this a long time, nearly thirty years; he can always smell it before the weather turns. 

John changes into khakis and sensible shoes and lets Marcus take the lead. Despite Marcus’s growing apprehension, it’s nice to see John let his hair down. The walk is not terribly strenuous, taking just a little over an hour and they settle in at a table in the back of a country pub, opting again for pints of stout, as if they both know something. Like the storm-heavy clouds above, they both bide their time.

Finally, Marcus breaks the silence; he doesn’t want to, but it has to be done. He does it gently, he thinks, starting with just a name: “Santino D’Antonio.” 

John stills, “What about him?” 

Marcus says, “Tell me you didn’t.” 

John closes his eyes. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, and then he gulps down his the rest of his pint in one long swallow. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s a surprisingly uncouth gesture for John, but Marcus supposes every man has that -- “that” being a cowering gesture to set things right, to remind a man everywhere he has ever been, “I’m going to get something stronger. If they don’t have bourbon, would you mind whiskey?” 

“No, whiskey is fine,” Marcus says. He watches as John gets up to go to the bar. The line of his spine is straight and tense, almost comically at odds with the plaid he is currently wearing. He returns with whiskey for himself and Johnnie Walker’s Blue Label for Marcus. The tumblers each hold generous doubles. It’ll probably out them as Americans, but Marcus makes a note to leave the barman a tip before they leave. 

John continues to stare morosely at his drink until he clears his throat, “...There wasn’t anyone else I could ask.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, John. That’s on par with asking someone like Iosef Tarasov to…” Marcus trails off. “You didn’t think to ask me?” 

“It’s the impossible task,” John says. “I wanted someone dispensable. With an in with the High Table. Besides, it didn’t seem. Appropriate, if I asked you.” 

(Finagling with the High Table aside, Marcus thinks he might have said yes. But that’s neither here nor there and more importantly, doesn’t take away from John’s point.) 

“Does Santino know you think that about him? That he’s dispensable?” Marcus lets John’s comment hurt about as much as a paper cut and then lets it go. There is time to revisit it all later. If Santino D’Antonio is involved, then Marcus knows, even by just the younger D’Antonio’s reputation, that it won’t be anything good. Unfortunately, even though Marcus has just compared Santino to Iosef Tarasov, he knows the analogy isn’t quite fair. And not in a good way, either. 

John shrugs, “He knows I don’t like him. But he can’t resist when people appeal to his vanity.” 

The usually strong taste of bourbon sours on Marcus’s tongue, “Vanity is costly, John.” 

John doesn’t answer. 

Marcus sighs into his bourbon and opts to chug the rest. The burn down his throat is welcome and familiar. 

“Come on, if we hurry, we might beat the rain.” 

 

“I’ve met someone,” John says. 

There is something different about John today. That much is clear. Marcus is so used to smelling coffee on him that John’s aftershave, though expensive and sharp and well-suited to the suit he was wearing, is jarring. 

Marcus knows in his heart of hearts that John’s meeting someone was always an inevitability. He’d set himself up for failure the moment he’d compared their current circumstance to Bonnie and Clyde. It’d been in a moment of weakness, when the weight of a certain trauma had bore down on him, that he hadn’t been able to think straight. 

“Good for you. What does that mean?” 

“It means,” John stretches out the word and lets it go. “I don’t know yet. I just thought that you should know.”


	2. Santino

Long story short: they don’t beat the rain. It rains plenty in New York but not like this. Yorkshire rain makes everything wetter but somehow things are also less shit. While John is in his shower, Marcus makes them both coffee from his tin and the little shitty coffee maker that comes with the room. The coffee is Marcus’s way of making peace and he supposes that John could have retreated back into his own room to take care of whatever he’d needed to, but he’d followed Marcus into his own room and just said he was going to shower. 

John comes out of the shower with just a towel and Marcus catches himself admiring the way condensation clings to the ink on his back. Like no time has passed between them since John had descended into Marcus’s life like a rushing river and left it just as abruptly, and then worming back into it like a trickle of a stream come back to life. 

“Coffee?” 

John hesitates for a moment, and takes the mug. 

Marcus feels compelled to confine the situation from taking on other dimensions. It mostly works, “Don’t make that face, it’s one of mine. Civet coffee.” 

John sits down at the edge of Marcus’s bed, “Civet coffee. Must be a special occasion.” 

Neither of them bring up the first time John has ever had civet coffee. Now that Marcus really thinks about it, maybe bringing along that particular coffee in a tin (although the tin follows him on most of his excursions) is not the best idea. Marcus settles for, “It is, in a way. Do you...know how long it’s been since I’ve gone somewhere and not stayed in a Continental?” 

John shrugs. 

“Must have been ‘78. Maybe even ‘77. That was a very long year.” 

A smirk plays on John’s lips, “Would you like me to tell you how old I was in ‘78?” 

“You could try,” Marcus plays back. “Let me remind you that I did bring a gun.” 

“As long as it’s not in your hand, I like my odds.” John reaches for his wrist, and then drops his hand. “I was, fifteen. Fourteen. Probably.” 

“You’ve forgot?” 

John says, “...You remember?” 

Marcus takes a sip of his own coffee and nearly sits down on the bed. Instead, he retreats and tries to make himself comfortable in the rickety chair parked by the writing desk. He runs his hand over the nicked pine and clenches his fist. “When you forget about time, it’s got a funny way of sneaking up on you and grabbing you by the balls. Kind of like being from Kentucky.” 

“...Are you really from Kentucky?” 

“I’ll let you make the decision for yourself,” Marcus says. “Next time you catch me drunk.” 

“I have never caught you drunk,” John points out. 

And that, in the twenty-odd years Marcus has known John Wick, holds true today. Sure, they’ve drunk together and broken bread over things that make drinking in excess look like less than nothing, but it suddenly feels different. The rain outside has taken on that imminent New York City stench and Marcus is aware again that he is the one needing a shower now. There’s also the fact that John is still sitting on his bed in only a towel. 

“...It’s not all that cracked up to be,” Marcus says faintly. “Trust me.”

“I’d rather make that judgement for myself, thanks.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s never going to happen.” 

John stands, and Marcus has a moment where he thinks that -- but John detours right on schedule and curls his hand around the door handle instead. 

“You sure you want to go out like that?” Marcus can’t help himself, but he does think afterwards that he shouldn’t have said it. 

John shrugs, “What’s the alternative?” 

Marcus swallows and lets him leave. 

 

Two days later, Marcus is informed by the cute bubbly thing at reception that someone has taken over his place at the breakfast with his handsome lad. Nothing about John screams “lad” particularly, but the words sit very pretty on her tongue. Marcus allows himself to be distracted ever so by her accent which sounds like the rolling hills before resigning himself to the end of his holiday. 

“He leave a name? The guest, I mean. Not my friend.” 

“If you ask me very nicely, pet, I will go get his name for you.” 

Marcus smiles showing teeth, “Consider me asking. Very nicely.” 

She is back a moment later, “Santino someone or other. Do you need a second name?” 

Marcus thinks, and then shakes his head, “What does he sound like?” 

“Very _Italiano,_ ” she says, and then goes a bit pink. “I don’t speak Italian.” 

Marcus confesses that he doesn’t either, not well, anyway. Then he asks for a table upwind from John and Santino (D’Antonio) and the young lady tells him that she enjoys hunting too, from time to time. Mostly rabbits sometimes squirrels.

The coffee, thin and bitter with no depth, leaves a lot to be desired. But Marcus treats himself this morning to a full English breakfast with the works and an extra egg and doesn’t even flinch when a knife pierces through one of his eggs. The runny yolk carves yellow rivulets through his black pudding. Marcus keeps his eyes on his breakfast, counts to five, if only to quash any bad ideas about him losing his temper. 

Not for the first time, Marcus dreams about retirement, but maybe not a beach. 

He lifts his gaze up to meet the dark eyes of one Santino D’Antonio, who looks like he’s running on no sleep but plenty of adrenaline. Which means that Santino is probably poised to make a bad choice or two or three and it’s not going to be too surprising that John could be persuaded to do the same in turn. 

“I was looking forward to that,” Marcus says. 

“Tough shit,” Santino says. “You think I wasn’t going to notice you?” 

A cursory glance around the dining room tells Marcus John has long gone. There are a few other diners scattered about, but Santino has never learned the advantages of subtlety. 

“A man’s gotta eat,” Marcus shrugs. “Do you want to sit down? You can have my coffee.” 

Santino nearly shudders, “It’s like drinking sewage. _No grazie_.” 

At least they have something in common. Although to share the love of not-shit coffee with an Italian is really pushing the bounds of human commonality. But Santino sits down anyway and Marcus turns his attention back to his yolk-soaked black pudding. 

“...Whatever it is, you don’t want to be doing it.” 

Santino smiles not very nicely, “You have no idea what I’m here to do, Marcus. John Wick isn’t beholden to you.” 

“I know he isn’t,” Marcus weighs his knife in his hand and thinks about stabbing it very neatly between Santino’s knuckles. He doesn’t, in the end, but it is a nice thought. “You don’t have to act as if I’m doling out specialist advice, Santino. It’s just general good sense. You should know that one never makes John do anything.” 

“Did he tell you what I did for him?” 

Marcus shrugs. He forces himself to take a sip of the awful coffee. 

“If you know,” Santino says. “It’s probably in your best interest to convince him to help me. It’s a simple thing. Nothing that he hasn’t done before.” He stands again, “Enjoy your shit coffee.” 

 

Marcus finds himself avoiding John for the rest of the morning and is settled in bed thumbing through _To the Lighthouse_ as he contemplates his next steps. Suddenly, the Ruger feels woefully inadequate and another part of him thinks about calling Winston to catch up on some gossip. Someone sold them out and Marcus would very much like to know who. He wants to know so that he can shove a clip down the person’s throat (or persons) and then some. 

A knock sounds on his door. Marcus knows it’s not Santino, but curls his hand around the grip of his gun anyway. It doesn’t hurt to be safe. 

“It’s open.” 

“You have a gun pointed at my head,” comes John’s voice from the other side of the door. It isn’t a question. 

“More like Santino’s head and your sternum. Same difference.” 

John pads into the room anyway and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t ask Marcus to lower the gun, possibly because he knows he deserves it, if Marcus decides to empty a round into him for being stupid. The world would be a much better place if stupidity was a criminal offense. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” 

 

The trail that John selects from a guidebook is named Corpse Road, 3.6 miles through trepid history, starting from the Bronze Age right up to the Fighting Forties. Marcus thinks John did it on purpose, but the inoffensive, if sometimes winding path does end up being a nice walk with plenty to see. The terrain is flat and easy on Marcus’s precipitation-caused limp and they wander through a farm, marvel at a waterfall full with rainwater just fresh, and finally, round back to the parking lot settled at the head of the old footbridge from which they’d started. The path takes them past some lax remnants of cables left over from World War II that Marcus would have loved to swipe and wrap around somebody’s throat. Nobody in particular, just somebody.

He doesn’t, in the end. What they end up doing is sitting in the rental car again and passing a thermos full of now lukewarm coffee back and forth. Coffee that doesn’t quite make up for this morning, but everything is a start. 

“Don’t help him,” Marcus says finally. “Prick has to learn that he can’t have everything he wants. It’s not a bad lesson to learn.” (Even if Santino D’Antonio looked closer to forty than seventeen.)

John reaches for something in his pocket. At first, Marcus thinks it’s a coin, but then he takes a second look. It’s just his luck, that these things are designed to be unmistakable. 

“This is what I think it is.” 

John doesn’t look at him, “Unfortunately.” 

Marcus takes the Ruger from the glove box, cocks it, and presses it without fanfare to John’s temple. “Winston said this to me once -- you _dumb fucker_.” 

“I’m pretty sure Winston didn’t say that.”

“You’re right, he didn’t. But I’m saying it. You _dumb fucker_.” 

John closes his eyes and exhales deeply. “It was the only way I knew to choose her. Otherwise, Marcus, I.” 

“Please stop talking,” Marcus says. “Or else I really will shoot you.”


	3. Perspective

“What’s your name?” 

When the car pulls up next to him on the sidewalk, Marcus thinks to lie, but he can’t think of a name. So he tells exactly a half-truth, “Marcus.” 

“Like Marcus Aurelius,” the man has an accent that makes him sound as if he has just stepped out from some kind of foreign newscast, "Good strong name. Where are you from, Marcus?” 

He’s not five minutes into the Big Apple and Marcus already sees the truth -- or, if not the truth, then surely the sorry state of this damned city. So far, prior to this moment, New York has always just been a collection of jagged magazine cut-outs, someone’s else’s dreams, plastered on all four walls of someone else’s bedroom, the stuff of dreams. Markedly somewhere _else_. New York, through the mock-kindliness of this man’s gaze, bears down on him on all its ugly and oppressive dimensions. 

“Nowhere important. Not here. But you know that.” 

“How do I know that?” 

The car that stops for him is nice; Marcus can’t say anything else for it other than the fact that it is nice. A dark sedan, either newish or just well-maintained. Marcus has already committed its license plate to memory. If things take a turn for the worse, a good memory and a glib mouth won’t do any good, but he’ll die knowing he’s done what he can. 

“You wouldn’t have spoken to me,” Marcus says. People are always telling him he talks too much. “You think it’s easier to get what you want, because I’m not from here. Alien.” 

The man laughs and runs his hand through his slightly unruly hair. Marcus gets the distinct feeling that it’s unruly because the man means it to be that way. “Now _that’s_ how I know you’re not from here, darling. Only aliens would think that New York isn’t full of aliens. Do I sound like I’m from New York?” 

“No,” Marcus shrugs. “I guess you sound like the Queen of fucking England.” 

 

“The Italian has left you a note.” The bubbly thing says, extending her hand out towards Marcus, bypassing John’s outstretched hand. “No. Not you, darling sorry -- you.” 

“Me?” Marcus arches a brow. This is an interesting development, although he isn’t sure if he likes it. 

“Is anything the matter?” 

“No,” Marcus smiles and takes the note; judging by the quality of the stock, Santino is probably just showing off while telling Marcus to shove it. In other words, nothing new. He pockets the note without looking at it and heads upstairs. John follows close to his heels, and it’s only after Marcus has closed the door to his room that he realizes John is still there. Grand. 

John says, “Aren’t you going to look at what it says?” 

“Not with you around.” 

“Why?” 

“Because,” habits die hard; Marcus has spent enough time in John’s company recently to have to remind himself that he isn’t in fact, retired. That being said, he hasn’t taken a job in a while, but between allowing time for his wounds to heal and fixing John’s mess -- because it _is_ a goddamn fucking mess -- Marcus has been busy. “I don’t trust you.” 

John laughs; it’s a cutting laugh that used to turn Marcus on like striking a match, but this time, he holds. “You don’t _trust_ me.” 

“You’re thinking of killing him, aren’t you? Santino D’Antonio. Like that’ll absolve you from the Marker.” It seems like a very obvious thing to say, and John should _know_ better, but recent events beg to differ. 

John doesn’t answer. Finally, he goes over to Marcus’s bed, still unmade as of this morning, and curls up on it with his shoes still on. Conscientiously, he hangs his feet off the edge and before Marcus can convince himself that it is an awful idea, he goes and sits by the curve of John’s knees. But he keeps his hands to himself. 

“Well, it’s better him than what he asked me to do,” John says, finally, facing the wall. “Who he asked me to kill, I mean.” 

“Don’t tell me it’s the Pope,” Marcus doesn’t think it is, but the world makes very little sense these days and what would put the cherry on top would be some bastard Italian asking John Wick to kill the Pope. 

“I’d prefer to kill the Pope,” John says. “Santino wants me to kill his sister.” 

Marcus, who doesn’t believe in God or anything on this green earth full of shit, feels a weird chill run down this spine and he thinks that he’d better cover himself. So he crosses -- he’s never done it before, but he has seen the motion plenty of times. On television, in person. 

“Wrong way,” John says. 

“What?” 

“It’s,” John uncurls himself on the mattress and Marcus is suddenly aware all over again that it’s a very small bed. There’s a pause that hangs in the air, and then John stretches out and clamps Marcus’s right wrist, “Spectacle, testicle, wallet, watch. Like this.” 

“What?” Marcus repeats himself. It’s something he almost never does; but damn if this isn’t a special occasion. “...Are you Catholic?” Catholicism is apparently, John’s Kentucky. Who knew? 

“No, I just killed an archbishop once,” John shrugs. “He kept mumbling that. Most people would pray. But not him. I don’t even know why I remember. It cracked me up in church once, when Helen made me go. It was all I could hear in my head.” 

“Ah,” Marcus feels like he’s been hit with a lot of information all at once, and he suddenly feels like he needs a drink. So he does, unearthing bourbon from his suitcase. He’s glad to put some real distance between himself and John, although it’s a toss up as to whether the bourbon will help or hinder his current...problem. 

After taking a swig straight from the bottle, Marcus considers his options; in the end, he opts for politeness and offers the bottle to John. 

“So you trust me to drink,” John weighs the bottle in his hand; Marcus thinks that the thought must have passed through John’s head very briefly, that it would be so _easy_ to smash Marcus’s head in with the bottle. He’s practically _asking_ for it. “But not to look at a damn note.” 

“Those two things are not even in the same galaxy, John,” Marcus meets his gaze and wills his surplus of experience to bulwark him from any further bad choices. “Wake _up_ , for fuck’s sake.” 

John now looks like he wants to glass him, “Why the fuck are you even _here_?”

“Because I,” Marcus grinds his teeth. “Maybe I fucking miss you and I don’t want you to die.” 

(Which is probably not the best thing to say to a guy who has just put his wife in the ground and killed half of the _Bratva_ over a fucking dog which, if one wants to get really technical, didn’t even die. But hey, everyone is allowed terrible choices, in moderation.) 

“Marcus,” John says his name, and his faces is a thousand things. 

“Forget it,” Marcus cuts him off. He convinces himself in that fresh hit of alcohol to his system is a shock since it’s before five. He has spoken out of turn; it’s that simple. And he can be forgiven for that, on the virtue of having forgiven John for much worse. “Just -- look at the damn note.” 

John puts down the bottle of bourbon and despite himself, Marcus relaxes. He watches as John unfolds the note, after a moment, John hands it back, “...He’s left you an address to an airfield. And a postscript that says not to tell me. For your own good.” 

“Too late, I guess,” Marcus shrugs. “You’re driving. Bring your paring knife.” 

 

The first time Marcus lays eyes on John Wick, they are in the bar of Continental, right smack in the middle of Manhattan’s hustle and bustle; Marcus is only five years in, and Winston is always after him to work on his facial expressions. Marcus has, as Winston so diplomatically puts it most of the time (to Marcus’s face, who knows how Winston speaks of him when he’s not around) got no game. It’s the only piece of Americana that the has picked up thus far as an _alien_ , and he’s damn proud of it. 

To put it more kindly, Winston is mostly appalled that Marcus hasn’t gained perspective. You’d think a couple of bullets piercing the back of somebody’s skull would wake him up, but no. Apparently, Marcus is still fucking _provincial_.

For the record, Marcus is starting to hate that word, _provincial_. He dislikes it as much as Winston's obsession with perspective.

“Your namesake is too,” Winston says. “Pick up your jaw.” 

Winston is the guy from the sedan, in case you haven’t pieced that together yet. For whatever reason, Marcus isn’t left for dead in some ditch after being used up three ways to Tuesday. Instead, he is sitting here, in a very nice bar, staring at some kid, and Winston is telling him to mind the teachings of Marcus Aurelius. 

“I’m pretty sure my ma just misspelled Mark. It’s her favorite book in the Bible.” It was not something he thought too much about, nowadays.

“Now I really prefer my interpretation,” Winston regards him narrowly. “Gives one perspective, don’t you think?” 

“You say perspective to me one more time, I will kill you,” Marcus says. 

“Too bad,” Winston grins, wide and open like he was the only tiger in the enclosure of a zoo. “No business on Continental grounds. We could, however, take it outside.” 

Marcus is not too bad as a long-distance marksman. He’s got the patience for it; he’s even got the eye. You have to have an eye for the future; imagine how the bullet is going to traverse bone, skin, hair, lungs, bladder. He is less enthused about close hand-to-hand combat because. Well, it reminds him of being at home. Being _provincial_. Whether or not he can hold his own against Winston, whose ring on his little finger suddenly takes on lethal dimensions, doesn't even enter into it, for Marcus.

There’s that fucking word again. 

The kid is meeting people. He strolls to a table full of what looks like Russians. Marcus is especially intrigued by the straight line of the kid’s spine. Straight and alert, but not nervous. Marcus has only recently become something of an expert on spines. Specifically paralysis. 

“Eighteen and already the _Bratva_ ’s newest darling,” Winston says. “John Wick.” 

_John Wick_. He didn’t know it then, but the name would lodge in Marcus’s ribcage and bleed him for the next twenty odd years. 

 

“What are you thinking about?” John says. 

“How to kill Santino D’Antonio,” Marcus says, because it’s true, kind of. “I can shoot him in the spine. You can gut him like a fish. Take your time.” 

“Thought you said that was a bad idea.” 

“It is a bad idea,” Marcus affirms. “Thinking about it never hurts anybody.” 

“You know, you don’t make sense to me,” John flits a look in Marcus’s direction. 

“And you figure that how?” 

John shrugs, “I don’t figure anything.” He looks like he wants to say more; there’s a lot more to say, for one thing, but they’ve arrived at the airfield, where Marcus can make out a private plane and Santino D’Antonio plus an entourage. 

“What part of ‘come alone and don’t tell John’ did you not understand, exactly?” 

“I’m a country hick,” Marcus says. It’s easier to admit to that now; now that it’s further away from him. Now that’s he’s become a man someone like John Wick can’t understand. “We don’t do too well with reading. Sometimes.” 

It’s the natural movement of his hand; the comfortable grip of the Ruger in hand, but in the presence of all the other goons and guns, it seems woefully inadequate and unfair. But Marcus is used to the world being unfair. That's never been a problem. 

“ _Marcus_ ,” says John, oddly dissonant as the voice of reason. Or maybe it’s not dissonant at all. That is the voice of the man who is anxiously only armed with a fruit knife. Actually, that’s pretty funny. 

“I’m still going to call in my Marker,” Santino says. “A bullet doesn’t change that.” 

“I know,” Marcus nods. “I’m just thinking.” It’s tempting to cock his gun. Give real _intention_ to thought. Intention gives thought perspective. 

Santino holds his eye and at last expels a breath, “Fine. I don’t care who fucking does it. She just better be dead. You have a week.”


	4. Zugzwang

Marcus lingers too long in front of John’s house and loses his chance to escape when John’s wife opens the door. He remembers only belatedly that she’s got a name and that he’d better remember it before she catches him out. 

“The bell’s not broken, is it? It’s a non-starter getting John to do DIY around the house.” 

The idea of John wielding a screwdriver or a hammer for the sake of home improvement is the funniest thing that Marcus has had to imagine for a while and he nearly loses his shit. Nearly, being the operative word. But he dutifully tries the bell and it dings. 

“Not broken,” Marcus says. “Just me. I --” He has no idea how to finish the sentence. Luckily, John’s head looms just over Helen’s shoulder right then and he doesn’t have to finish. 

“Talking bad about me again, Helen? Marcus.” 

“Yes,” Helen pecks her husband on the cheek, “Was just saying you’re a nightmare around the house.” 

“I can see that the honeymoon phase has treated you well,” Marcus deadpans. He steps inside and noting the absence of a shoe rack, opts for keeping his shoes on. “Good thing I bought this.” He’s bought a bottle of red, it’s probably not the best, but it’s also not the worst. Marcus doesn’t really do wine. 

“You have great taste,” Helen announces after scrutinizing the bottle. 

“I do?” 

“Of course you do,” John says, and it’s that smile on his face. He’s really not allowed to smile like that at Marcus anymore, but since when has John fucking Wick ever followed the rules. “C’mon. Let me give you the tour.” 

 

“Mr. Wick, with a human dog this time, interesting.” is what Julius greets them with and Marcus fights the urge to bare his teeth. Better not to give the guy any more ammo. What they must all think of him. 

Instead, Marcus says, “I resent that.” 

John says, “Me too.” 

Julius looks between them and decides, wisely, not to question what just happened. If he had, Marcus wouldn’t have had an answer for him anyway. “...Let me not waste any words. Are you here for _him_?” 

“I wish,” John says, ironic and straight-faced enough that Marcus almost laughs. Julius, on the other hand, finds the joke not at all funny. Not that it’s a joke. 

“He’s not. It’s worse,” Marcus supplies. 

“God help me, if --” 

“Julius, you’re sitting pretty at the pinnacle of organized crime, doubt the big man upstairs would want to help you out with anything,” Marcus says. That’s one Hail Mary, for later. He'll have to remember to ask John's advice. “But no, we’re not here for the Pope.” 

“I’m not here for the Pope,” John clarifies, and Julius looks nearly cross-eyed. 

 

They ask for adjoining rooms and get them. Still, Marcus feels vaguely judged. “Does everyone know we used to fuck?” 

“Probably,” John says. “That bother you?” 

“Yeah, kind of.” Marcus shrugs. Weirdly, it’s the truth. It bothers him because sex is a private thing and if everyone knows then Winston was right, all those years ago and here Marcus had been hoping to outlive the man’s expectations. “But not for the reasons you think. I’m not ashamed of you.” 

John’s look turns, and Marcus wonders if that was the wrong thing to say. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It doesn’t mean anything other than what’s on the tin,” Marcus says. In the end, he comforts himself with the fact that this isn’t the first inadvisable thing that he’d said to John recently. Besides, it’s _true_ , and sometimes, that counts for more. ”I’m not ashamed of you.” 

 

Helen roasts lamb and Marcus’s bottle of red disappears before dessert. He offers to make them affogato only to abandon the idea when he realizes the espresso available at _chez_ Wick amounts to little more than sawdust dreck. 

“What happened to the coffee I sent you as a wedding present?” 

“We drank it,” John says.

“Inhaled it,” Helen says. “Sorry.” 

“You’re not in the slightest,” Marcus looks between them. “That shit was expensive.” 

He can see that John is about to say something. Something undoubtedly inadvisable about Marcus’s finances, which won't really hurt in the slightest from expensive as shit coffee. But then he looks at his wife and Helen’s shining face and keeps his mouth shut. Then Helen touches John’s arm, “I can go get some cake or something; that bakery down the street hasn’t closed yet. You like their hazelnut torte, don’t you?”

“Hm,” John says.

“And is there anything you won’t eat?” Helen says, and Marcus feels very keenly, the questions floating beneath. 

“I’m an omnivore,” Marcus says, careful to avoid John’s gaze in his peripheral vision; which is kind of hard going since Marcus's peripheral vision is what generally keeps him going most of the time. “Anything will do me.” 

Helen smiles, “Then I will surprise you. Get John to pour you some of the bourbon we've got while I’m gone. He bought it last week after we ran into you. Tell him not to be stingy.” 

Then she’s gone, and it’s only Marcus and John and nearly no air in the room. John says, “Bourbon?” 

“Yeah, please. Don’t be stingy.” It’d be a shame, after all, to waste Helen’s hospitality. She’s good for John; Marcus can see that in spades, even if the niggling feeling at the back of his skull that might as well be jealousy, wants him to see otherwise. 

“I’m generous with everything,” John looks Marcus straight in the eye and Marcus holds. His cock twitches, but he fucking holds. Then John goes to the liquor cabinet and comes back with two tumblers. “Here you go.” 

“Thanks.” 

John sits down on the couch and stared at his drink, “I’m _happy_.” 

“You look it,” Marcus says. “Take care of your Bonnie. If you need anything, I’m here too.” 

They clink glasses, and the good bourbon does not make up for the lack of good coffee, Marcus thinks, but it’s a start. 

 

John is kissing him the moment they’re inside one of the rooms. The whole sensation of it, is familiar, and then Marcus remembers that John’s wife is dead. He grips a hand in John’s hair and John makes a sound. 

“John.” 

“What?” John’s gaze is black and heady and Marcus wishes he had the good sense to say nothing. “We’ll be dead by the end of the week. We might as well --” 

“So I’m just a pity fuck for the end of the world, am I?” It’s amazing how much stupid shit comes out of somebody’s mouth when that somebody doesn’t pay attention. Once more, Marcus has Winston’s voice in his head, intoning things like “perspective” and “sentiment” and it somehow didn’t seem fair. He’d never even slept with the guy and still, there Winston is in his head. Maybe if Marcus gets out of this alive -- after all, if John Wick thinks they’re on a suicide mission, they probably are -- he might propose sucking Winston off once for shits and giggles. 

But then there is John again. The man is impossible to ignore. 

“I never pity you,” John says. “Just like you’re not ashamed of me. We’re equals. And you should really stop questioning me every time I want something, Marcus.” 

Marcus’s blood is finite in his body and half of it wants to rush north to fill out a youthful blush, the way he hasn’t wanted to in years. Because he hasn’t had anyone pay him a compliment like that in a long time. Marcus has never needed compliments; not from anyone, not even from the likes of John Wick, but that’s hardly true. 

But most of Marcus’s blood flow ends up south, because of Marcus isn’t just going to -- 

“...Okay. Then what the fuck do you want?” 

John’s fingers are nimble and quick and they’ve undone Marcus’s fly and the world is so fucking _unfair_. “You really gonna make me say it?” 

“Winston always said I was too soft on you,” Marcus sighs. “That I…” He trails off and clamps his own fingers around John’s wrists and John exhales. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, I’m going to make you say it. We never talk about anything, anyway.” 

At this, John jerks his wrists away, as if Marcus has burned him with his touch and his words. “I don’t need you here if all you want to do is talk.” 

“I’m down for fucking too,” Marcus says, and that’s hardly a lie. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the one who’s changed.” 

In some ways, change is easy. Humans can’t help but change. The ones who want to survive most of all. If one road leads a man to certain death, he’d be a fool not to do a hard swerve left gasping for his next breath. 

John bends, and it is only to Marcus’s partial surprise that the crook of his neck remembers the rare warmth of John’s temple. 

“I wish you’d run away with me when I was stupid enough to ask,” John says. “Do you think about that?” 

Marcus sighs, heavy, human, exhausted, “I wouldn’t have changed my answer. But yes, I think about it all the time.” He curls his hand around the shape of John's skull and wills the moment to last.

 

The sex isn’t as adventurous as Marcus remembers but it does the job and he thinks they do well enough not to sustain injuries from sex as well as injuries from more practical activity. When Marcus reaches for his clothes to get dressed, John stops him with words and not with touch, and that’s when Marcus knows he’s screwed. It's nice to know some things don't really change.

“Not yet.” 

John is beautiful; he’s older now (they both are) but that means there’s more of him that keeps. Scarred up and sewn up with bits missing and somehow still living. Marcus touches his mouth and John kisses the tips of his fingers. “Okay.” 

 

Later, they dress for war. Ching is so offended by Marcus’s sad excuse for a firearm and John’s paring knife, (“is that for fucking _fruit_.”) that she confiscates both and tells them to shape the fuck up.

“Fruits need sex too,” John says. Ching remains unamused and tells them that going local is all the rage. All _fatto in Italia_ ; best in the world. 

Marcus’s phone rings when John has been whisked behind a curtain for a fitting. Over the drone of the tailor intoning about the particulars of a lined dinner jacket, he picks up. 

“To whom am I speaking? The sensible one, or John Wick?” The sensible one; Marcus decides that he'll have to take it -- after all, it's a step up from being someone's human dog.

It’s a woman’s voice, and Marcus still takes a minute to place it, “Hello, _Signora_.” 

“Your Italian is still terrible,” says Gianna D’Antonio without preamble. “Are you alone?” 

Marcus’s Spanish is much better for reasons, but he doubts that is going to impress her. “I’m not. But my companion’s occupied for the moment. I'm alone as I'll ever be.” 

“You still love coffee, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Actually coffee sounds pretty good right about now. Marcus hasn’t had a cup since breakfast, which seems like a week ago. Luckily, so far, the adrenaline in his blood is serving him fine. But there’s nothing like caffeine. 

“I shall text you an address. Be there in half an hour. Come alone.” 

“Are you going to be alone, too?” Marcus asks this, despite speaking to the dial tone of an already cut call, and knowing the answer.


	5. Blood

The first time he bleeds, Marcus is six years old. He bleeds because fucking Trevor Jones has punched him in the teeth. Trevor is bigger than he is but that’s never really been a deterrent for anything; in fact, it’s the opposite. Blood tastes weird, a cloying metallic taste at the tip of his tongue and Marcus even tastes the rotting enamel of one of his teeth. 

Marcus spends a week in the hospital and when he gets out, he waits until he’d grown bigger, until the rock he wanted to hold in his hand to bash in Trevor Jones’s skull becomes not so heavy. Patience is a learned virtue; it’s always treated him right, unlike everything else. 

After that, the creek bleeds and to this day, there’s a rumor going around that the water, scummy and brown, has eyes. 

 

“Your go,” says John, poking his head out from behind the curtain at last. 

Before Marcus can think over what to tell him, John has already read him inside and out, “Let me guess. Winston?” 

“Yeah?” 

John stares at him some more and Marcus feels very clearly, his insides hollowing out in a way that has nearly has nothing whatsoever to do with genitalia being where it otherwise should or shouldn’t. 

John says, “Don’t fuck with me.” 

“Only in private, promise,” Marcus assures him and John’s right fist balls up and Marcus vaguely wonders if he’s going to go for teeth. That’s fine, he’s been here before and sooner or later he’s gotta get dentures. 

“Gentlemen,” Ching’s voice sounds somewhere behind them. Marcus looks at her and his first reaction is that the gun she’s holding is really very sexy and top of the line, and then that opinion only dips slightly when he realizes that the muzzle of the gun is close enough to leave him just a splatter on the wall. “Just a polite reminder, that our Manager sees this as an extension of Continental grounds. As such, I thank you to keep your business to yourselves. Are we clear?” 

John unfolds his fist and stuffs his hand quickly into his pants’ pocket. “I still think that rule is stupid.”

Ching fixes him with a look, “Is not stupid if it keeps you alive, John.” 

That’s a good point, and Marcus is going to file that away for future use. He clears his throat and John turns towards him, “ _What_?”

“Let’s take this outside,” Marcus gestures towards the door. “You can punch me there.” 

 

The sunlight is oppressive and Italian and Marcus is wishing he’s had the sense to bring sunglasses. He hasn’t, but he has, belatedly remembered buying a pack of smokes from a corner shop because he’s heard good things about Italian cigarettes. 

But before he can do any of that, John’s fist connects meanly and without preamble with the lower side of Marcus’s jaw. When he recovers, he has to admit that the effort will bruise and swell, but it isn’t as if John has dislocated or broken Marcus’s jaw which speaks to...something. 

“Don’t fuck with me,” John says again. 

“I’ll have to tell my date I walked into a door,” Marcus presses a hand into the bruise and winces. “Fine. She called me. Gianna D’Antonio. Wants to meet for coffee.” 

“I’m coming with you,” John says. 

“She says to come alone and she isn’t her brother,” Marcus points out. “I like my odds. Besides, I’m not unfamiliar with her.” 

John must be a bit short on sleep, because he blinks blearily and then wakes up, “You’re not serious.” 

“I was trying to learn Italian,” Marcus shrugs. “Her tits kept getting in the way. I”ll be fine. As fine as I can be.” 

“...Take this,” John holds out something with its handle extended towards Marcus and it takes Marcus a moment to realize that it’s John’s fruit knife. He really needs that coffee. It’s early in the afternoon, so likely he’ll be offered a sedate caffe macchiato with a dash of frothy milk that won’t attempt to rearrange his insides. 

“I thought she took it.” 

“I stole it back when they weren’t looking,” John shrugs. “Who do you take me for?” 

“A lot, these days.” Marcus says and John’s face goes the merest shade towards red. He takes the knife and pockets it. Then, Marcus finally gets to light a cigarette. He offers one to John and the man declines. 

“I like that knife, just so you know. It was hers. I use it to cut up fruit in the morning that I put in my cereal.” 

“Sounds healthy,” Marcus nods. “You keep that up.” 

 

The address that Gianna sends him turns out to be a bar. Nothing too showy, but Marcus is careful to show up five minutes late as to not seem too obsequious. He is thinking of treating himself to a shot of something when one of the bartenders comes up to him, looks him up and down and says, “If you’re the American cowboy, the _Signora_ is waiting for you. I have orders not to serve you anything.” 

“Yee-haw, kill me,” Marcus stares straight ahead, channelling his inner John Wick, and it halfway works because the guy cowers and retreats to fetch a glass. 

“I guess you may have a shot. But make it quick.” 

Marcus nurses his shot of subpar whiskey for exactly ten minutes. During that time, he is pretty sure the barkeep has gone and pissed himself. Finally, he spots another familiar face striding towards the table and Marcus glances at his glass, near empty and holds up his hands, “I’m almost done.” 

“You’re not nearly as endearing as you think you are,” Cassian says, arms crossed; he is Gianna’s number one goon, a no-nonsense man from Puglia where they make good wine. Apparently Cassian first saw his future boss naked when he was about sixteen and hasn’t ever gotten over it since. “You’re late.” 

“I’m also alone and unarmed,” Marcus tells him. “Two out of three ain’t bad.” 

 

“And what is _this_?” 

And of course, the bar boasts an impressive, labyrinthine cellar and once Cassian prods Marcus down to the very bottom of the stairs, he pats him down and finds John’s fruit knife. 

“It’s for fruit,” Marcus says. “Not for people.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Cassian says. 

“That’s on you; can I have it back?” 

“No.” 

Worth a shot. Marcus has to hold up his hands again as Cassian steers him down one of the corridors. At last they come to a door, partially ajar, guarded by Ares reading what looks like an Italian translation of something by Dumas.

Marcus nods hello and she signs, _coffee’s cold_. 

 

“You can close the door behind you,” Gianna says. “Assuming that you’re not carrying.” 

“Only a paring knife,” Marcus shrugs. He opens his jacket to demonstrate both the lack of holsters and firearms. “Cassian has it.”

“He says it’s for _fruit_ ,” Cassian snarls. 

Gianna searches him with her eyes, right behind his ribs, but nothing compares to John, so Marcus wraps that blackness around himself and at last she turns away. “Is it for fruit?” 

“Yeah,” Marcus says, not breathing. 

“Very well,” Gianna stands. She’s dressed too nice to be stuck down here in the basement, but that’s likely calculated. The collar of her filmy blouse is open, and Marcus’s eyes are naturally drawn to the small golden cross nestled in between her -- 

“Here you are,” Gianna is pointing the knife straight at Marcus’s throat. “Eyes up here, _per favore_.” 

“I remember what that means,” Marcus says. “ _Grazie_.” 

“Have a seat. And some coffee, but it’s cold now. I’m not making more. Your fault for being late.” 

“I can’t be everyone’s dog,” Marcus folds himself neatly into the chair she’d nodded towards. One of the legs is a bit rickety but Marcus suspects that’s on purpose. “I’ll take caffeine how I can get it.” 

Gianna makes a noise in her throat that’s almost akin to amusement, “You’re less of a cowboy than I remember.” 

“I’m not --” Marcus starts and then he says, “Oh.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

The coffee is indeed lukewarm, but it’s still good coffee, “Nothing. Remind me to apologize to your boy upstairs.” 

Gianna is watching him drink his coffee so intently that Marcus is forced to consider the possibility of poison. Poison is very much a woman’s game, but the thing is, Marcus doesn’t think that Gianna D’Antonio has gotten to where she is playing just a woman’s game. 

“I don’t like my brother,” Gianna says. “But I love him. Blood calls to blood. It’s why the Marker and what it signifies will survive anything.” 

There’s a lot in that sentence, but Marcus has long since learned the value of starting small. Such as touching the elbow of an unbelievably attractive woman in an airport lounge and saying to her that he’d always wanted to learn Italian. 

“You could always kill him first,” Marcus suggests. “Then the Marker passes to you, his nearest and dearest. Imagine what we could do for you.” 

“It is John’s Marker,” she looks at him. “Not yours. And I’m not going to kill Santino. Not that it isn’t tempting. Papa is old now, he’s on a ventilator. I doubt that his heart can take it, even if he does agree with me that Santino can be an idiot.”

“And how is the old man?” 

Gianna bares her teeth, “Still the same. Not been the same since the accident.” 

“So patricide is okay and fratricide isn’t? Interesting.” 

“Not really. It’s in the Bible. Fratricide is murder, the first act of human cruelty,” Gianna says, “Patricide is a way of life. The moment a child is born into this world, its father knows that he’ll be sucked dry by little monsters that bear his blood. That too. Is death. And Papa is not dead, so I have not committed either.” 

“That’s a point,” Marcus nods. 

 

They move onto some fortified wine that Gianna keeps in a decanter, “Is he really not here?” 

“Believe it or not, John doesn’t want to kill you,” Marcus accepts the glass she hands him. “He’s not some sort of --” 

“Soulless boogeyman? That word has always amused me,” Gianna clinks her glass against his and drinks. “It sounds better in the Italian. _Uemo nero_.” 

“He’d rather kill the Pope,” Marcus shrugs. He crosses himself and remembers -- spectacle, testicle, wallet, watch. 

“How charming. Tell him thank you.” 

“I’ll do that,” Marcus sniffs at the wine. It’s odd, but the face that comes to mind is not John’s, but the bright eyes of Helen Wick, telling him that he ‘has great taste.” 

“Could I see your fruit knife?” 

Marcus hands her the knife and watches her open a vein. The redness of her blood stands out against the dark plum-purple color of the wine. 

“What the _hell_ are you --” 

“There are many ways to die, Marcus. You know that. You’ve died many times. This time, you’ve not even bothered to find a life of your own. If my brother wants me dead, then I will die. But in the way I wish to.” 

The door opens behind him and Cassian appears holding a box. Marcus peers at its contents and winces. 

“I trust you will cooperate?” Cassian says. “It’s the most sensible thing to do.” 

“I,” Marcus looks between them. “Sure.” 

“I knew I liked you, cowboy,” Gianna grins at him. “Did John ever tell you why he gave my brother the Marker?” 

“Kind of,” Marcus says. “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

“It’s not,” she agrees. “It’s just always been a matter of great curiosity for me.”


	6. Conviction

“Have you seen Jonathan recently?” Winston says, subtle bastard that he is. They are, as these things often happen, in the Continental bar, Marcus at his usual hideaway in the corner and Winston’s stubborn refusal to read a room, even though he keeps insisting that he is perfectly capable of doing so. 

“He is his own man,” Marcus shrugs. “I don’t keep tabs on someone grown and capable. There’s no need.” 

“I keep tabs on you,” Winston says. 

“Yeah, but that’s you don’t trust me to be capable,” Marcus grouses. “It no longer offends me and is now just a fact of life.” 

“Or in fact, grown. It’s only a certain sort of young foolish man that thrives on the understanding of the sentiment he supposedly has portended in another person.” 

That stings, but the good thing about Winston keeping tabs on Marcus is that the man doesn’t have enough hours in the day to do it all the time. So Winston doesn’t know his tells, at least, not all of them. 

“You wanna fuck me like that, at least buy me a drink,” Marcus is near empty anyway. 

Winston studies him, like he’s something practical, but perhaps unexpected, or maybe something worse. A rat let loose into some sort of maze expected to find its way out, or maybe not really. 

“Are you on the same?” 

“Yeah,” Marcus shakes the remnants of ice in his glass. 

“All right,” Winston goes over to the bar, has a few words, and Marcus considers the merits of making a run to the elevators but then retreating with his tail between his legs becomes unbearable next to the possibility of free booze. 

“Here,” Winston says. “I even made it a treble.” 

“Is that legal?” 

“No, but you forget I run this place, the way you speak to me,” Winston is having wine; it looks like a large, which means the vintage must be mediocre. “I thought it might make you feel more at home.” 

That stings, but Marcus is determined not to let it show. 

“Anyway, I’m not as sentimental as you think,” Marcus says. “I’ll probably have to bury him one day. Or he buries me first. And then you’ll forget about us.” Winston has years and years on them both, but Marcus has a feeling that not taking top of the line contracts and just strutting around the bar all day goes a long way towards making sure the old bastard lived forever. 

“Self-pity is the worst sort sentiment,” Winston returns. “I’ll forget about you whether you guilt me into it or not.” 

 

The bar has filled up since, having segued into the early evening. There’s a happy hour sign out, something that Marcus would have otherwise thought crass but he thinks he understands the way Gianna does things now. If it’s there, why not take it? But as such, he doesn’t get to apologize to the barman. Something for next time. He can’t help to think John might like this place, too. 

Speaking of, his phone is going, “Hello?” 

“It’s me,” John says. “I don’t know if this puts a wrench in anything, but I’m being held hostage.” He also sounds remarkably _calm_ about it, which is...something.

“...What?” The idea is so absurd, Marcus nearly laughs. He doesn’t, in the end. “By who?” 

“Who do you think? He can hear you, by the way.” 

“So don’t you dare try anything stupid,” Santino D’Antonio’s voice sounds from nearby. “I know you’ve seen my sister.” 

“I have. And she’s a bit. Okay, very dead. I have proof,” Marcus says. “You’re at the Continental, aren’t you? Doesn’t this count as business?” 

“...Not really,” John says. “He just won’t let me leave the room. We’ve ordered lots of room service. I’m going to save you some of this duck, Marcus.” 

Somehow, Marcus has real trouble imagining John Wick unable to leave a room simply because Santino D’Antonio has told him not to. But as Gianna has so sagely pointed out, John hasn’t told Marcus exactly why Santino has garnered a Marker from John -- of course John has said _why_ \-- some pretty sounding bullshit about needing to _choose_ Helen, as if someone like Marcus has always had the means to keep John from making the choices he has always wanted to make. 

“Hey, John,” he says. 

“Yeah,” John says. 

“I would,” _die for you_ , is what Marcus rather wants to say. To say it only halfway and half-assed seems on par for the course. “You know that. I would, any day of the week. So fucking don’t do anything stupid. And do save me some of that duck.” 

“Okay,” John says. His voice suddenly sounds paper-thin, like someone has stretched and strained his vocal chords. 

“I want to hear you say it,” Marcus presses. 

“I would too, any day of the week,” John says, in an echo that slams into Marcus’s next heartbeat and he has to take a second. 

“Not that,” Marcus says with his eyes shut. “The other thing.” 

“I won’t fucking do anything stupid,” John intones, after a moment. “I’m going to go now.” 

 

“Why have you allowed a fucking hostage situation to develop on Continental grounds?” 

Even at a glance, Marcus can tell that Julius’s office is bigger than Winston’s, and notably less organized. No doubt that Julius will find a way to blame the state of affairs on the Holy Man himself. Again. 

“I’m monitoring the situation very closely,” Julius says. “So far they’ve just decided to torture room service. We’ve run out of duck.” In his accent, Marcus has nearly heard “we’ve run of dick.” Normally, he would have found that hilarious and would have given it a minute. But he is conscious that he’s got only a little time. 

“Have they paid you off?” Marcus asks. Considering the state of things, it’s probably worth asking.

“I resent your implication,” Julius straightens some papers and stands. He is only just a hair taller than Marcus, but that hair apparently counts for a lot and Julius is milking that hair for it is worth. Marcus feels the tip of his nose burning. “I’m a representative of the _Continental_.” 

“Who still prays to the guy upstairs,” Marcus says. “Maybe you should make up your goddamn mind.” He strolls out of the office, leaving Julius still sputtering for a reply. 

 

“Why do you have Marine tattoos? Winston says the _bratva_ found you when you were only eighteen.”

Although, as far as Marcus is concerned, John Wick is the most extraordinary kid he has met in his lifetime. The fact that John could have been a marine brat or something courtesy of wherever the fuck he has come from wouldn’t have been all that surprising. 

John glances back at him, “Do you like them?” 

“What do you think?” 

Given the amount of time they’ve spent fucking between jobs (which was at the same time not all that much and a lot), Marcus likes to think that he knows every inch of ink on John’s body. So much so that he might have been able to carve out the pictures himself. 

“Maybe I just like hearing it,” John shrugs. 

“That’s needy of you,” Marcus catches his chin and kisses him. They rarely kiss like this, but that’s fine too. John sighs into the touch and Marcus feels him smile.

“You’re needier than me, maybe I’m just wanna even things out.” John fixes him with a glance that isn’t anything. 

One of these days, Marcus has a feeling that one of them is going to do something really stupid. Like say I love you while high as a kite or drunk. So far, nobody’s fucked up, yet. 

“C’mon, tell me.” 

“I got inked by a guy I knew.” John shrugs. “I knew things about him, and the price of me forgetting was his inking me. We did it all in one go.” 

John’s mouth is still red and swollen and for a slightly distasteful moment, Marcus is forced to consider -- no. He shakes the thought out of his head, “That’s not really answer an answer to my question, John.” 

“It seemed cool,” John says. “Fortune favors the bold. Like I could do something if I was, bold. My choices would be mine, even if they’re...I don’t know, not very smart.” 

Marcus can’t resist, “Like the chopper?” 

John glowers at him, quiet and furious. Marcus has come to recognize such a defiant expression on him as prerequisite to yet another great round in the sack if he can get the rest of him to wake up. But he doesn’t really mind, “...When the fuck are you going to let that go?” 

“If Winston gets to have a go at me about fucking Sydney, then the chopper’s my prerogative,” Marcus shrugs. “But your choices are always going to be yours, John. Not anyone else’s. If you fuck up, you don’t have anyone else to blame.” 

 

Marcus goes to his room and is gratified that someone (John, most likely) has had black tie delivered to his room. He puts his ear to the adjoining wall and can’t hear anything except for the low murmur of words. This is a bit of a bother, but then Marcus has to think of it as a good thing, because maybe nobody heard them fucking earlier. 

He dresses, feeling all very _fatto in Italia_. Marcus is aware now, that he hasn’t been properly fitted, but he can also tell that John has tried his best. That’s the thing about John Wick that people don’t seem to have figured out and what Marcus finds most endearing about him that outside of all the things he can do well, he tries at the rest. God knows. 

Sliding his half-Windsor into place, Marcus rings Winston. The conversation goes a bit like this: 

“It’s Marcus.” 

“And now you’re ringing me,” Winston sounds something close to amused, and maybe even a little worried. “Not having a nice holiday?” 

“It’s the pits,” Marcus admits; it doesn’t feel like it’s much of an admission because likely, it’s nothing that Winston doesn’t know already. “I’m in Rome.” 

“But Rome is _lovely_ ,” says Winston, laying it on thick enough that Marcus is almost certain he is being sarcastic. Mixed in with Winston’s staunch Britishness (for whatever reason he insists that being British is different and more preferable than being English) is that irony that cuts through Marcus’s American, provincial being and makes him small. “Especially if you have someone to share it with.” 

“...You never approved of John and me,” Marcus says. He doesn’t know why he’s saying it now. 

“There’s nothing to approve of, dear,” Winston returns, and there’s something that graces the older man’s voice (Marcus is no spring chicken, but Winston is both prehistoric, beyond time, and certainly beyond the rest of Marcus’s lifespan, which isn’t looking great) that almost sounds like pity. Or perhaps just plain old disappointment, that Marcus has never managed to pick up the right sort of perspective. “Or disapprove of, for that matter.” 

That pause is meant to stand in for _you stupid fucker_. Marcus is sure of it. 

“Winston, I.” 

“Let me remind you that I have a long memory,” Winston says. “If you say something to me that you don’t mean to. You’ll never live it down.” 

“Then,” Marcus licks the roof of his mouth to cull some spit, “Your perspective sucks.” 

“Maybe it does. If you thought so, you should have told me sooner.” 

“Good-bye,” Marcus says. “I’ll try not to be so stupid.” 

 

Santino D’Antonio is indeed in John’s room, along with a few men. The room smells like room service. 

“Took you long enough,” Santino says. Oddly, he and John are staring at a _chess_ board and Marcus feels like picking up one of the pawns and throwing it at his head. “Well?” 

“Well,” Marcus lays out his trophies on the table. The knife with Gianna’s blood, a finger. Bits of hair. 

“You didn’t shoot her?” 

“She deserved better,” Marcus says. “She deserves to know that her brother means to stab her in the back so I stabbed her.” 

“Her teeth are missing,” Santino gazes at the contents of the table, “Anyone can lose a finger. Or some hair. And stabs don’t have to be fatal. A bullet would have been better, Marcus. But you've never had any conviction.” 

“ _Santino_ ,” that’s John. For the moment, Marcus forgets about him. “Marcus did what you wanted. The Marker’s fulfilled.” 

“On the contrary,” Santino grins, wolfishly. 

“Gianna loved you,” Marcus says. He aims a gun, level between Santino’s eyes and all of the men near him seem to be a bit slow on the uptake. “God knows why. Something about blood.” 

Santino simmers, “If you’re doing what I think you’re going to do, you _can’t --_ ” 

“I know,” Marcus says. “It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” 

John says, “Marcus.” 

“You did a stupid thing once, John,” Marcus glances back at him. “‘It was the only way I knew to choose her.' That’s bullshit.” 

“Maybe a little,” John admits. “But.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Yes,” John nods. Someone is banging on the door. That someone sounds a lot like Julius, also slow on the uptake. Maybe he'd been praying for strength. 

Marcus swallows, “If you trust me, then make sure the door doesn’t open. It will buy us some time.” 

Marcus squeezes the trigger of the gun in his hand; he feels the bullet go, and then the room fills with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I enjoyed writing this and am happy to see that people are along for the ride! Regardless of the state of any future JW movies/tie-ins, I think the forthcoming third part of this particular series is going to be the last. I am still trying to let it percolate in my head (I have an ending but not much else). Please do look for it in the near future.


End file.
